


Anxious

by Bitsy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 3b, Anxiety Attacks, Gen, Panic Attacks, Spoilers, Tread With Caution, descriptions of panic attacks, first person POV, mental health, possible triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitsy/pseuds/Bitsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a rotten feeling, your body's defense mechanism turning on itself, devouring itself, making you shake, making you sick. I haven't eaten in three days. You know why that happens? So if the 'flight' instinct kicks in harder you don't carry too much extra weight on your frame. Easier to run on an empty stomach. Primate evolution is a bitch, isn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anxious

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a first person telling of the thoughts accompanying an anxiety attack. It will probably feature several triggers as a result. Please read with caution if you are prone to anxiety and/or panic disorders.
> 
> Set in a vague place during 3B.

I think my least favorite part is the low-grade shakiness. Well, that and the shortness of breath. And the nausea. Not a big fan of being nauseated, it's kind of bullshit. Like, yes stomach, I know you're aware that my brain is in the middle of a death dive spiral, you're not allowed to join the party. It's a shit show. My spleen is standing in the kitchen awkwardly, and my liver is dancing around with a lampshade on. Worst body party ever, I'm calling the cops to get it shut down.

The shakes start in the middle of my chest. I'm one of those incredibly lucky individuals that feels the trembling all over my body, not just in my hands or arms. Like my heart is about to make a break for it, go on a vacation to Aruba. Which would be great, if I could go along with it. Aruba. I hear it's nice this time of year. Probably not too many werewolves in Aruba. How have I never seen what a great freakin' idea it would be to hightail my skinny butt to Aruba? Focus.

No. Don't focus. Focus makes it worse. Distractions. Distractions are key.

Maybe I should skip my Adderall today. The amphetamine makes the shakes worse. But then I feel so weird and drifty and out of it. Benefit/loss analysis: Increase the anxiety? Or go through the day with a migraine and depression?

I pop my Adderall and dry swallow them. I've gotten good at that over the years, I kinda had to. Can't always take a water break. 

My computer is my lifesaver right now. I can turn it on, close my bedroom door, and turn to my tried and true distractions. What will it be today? Netflix? Buzzfeed? Reddit? Tumblr? StumbleUpon? Or do I turn on World Of Warcraft and do my dailies? I'm in ur account, sharding ur purpz. Or do I try to ignore everything, including my traitor body and brain, and go for a little private time? Maybe that would help, one good solid Big O to just knock me out and make this stop.

It's not stopping.

It's not even all that exciting, what triggered this. It's not like I've been having issues freaking out about not being able to read or anything, or that my best friend is losing his goddamn mind. It's not like Allison nearly put an _arrow_ through Lydia's face. Yeah, not done processing that, it's still loading. Give me another forty-eight hours and I'll have a proper freak out over it. Although I'm sure that's not helping right now, like another layer of panic patina on my brain. Panic Patina. Wasn't their sophomore album a critical success? No, this is day three of low-grade anxiety, all over a failed test. A failed test at school. Stupidest thing I've ever done, one stupid mistake, one tiny lapse, and I brought my GPA down by one fourth of a percentage point.

I am losing my goddamn mind over one fourth of a percentage point. Point two-five. That's it. On the scale of life fuckups, this should barely register on the Richter scale. And what am I doing? Losing sleep at night. I just see my future rolling down the road in front of me, doors closing on me because of that rotten point two-five. _We're sorry, Mr. Stilinski. But you're just not Harvard material, because you failed this test on German politics. We're sorry, Mr. Stilinski, we just don't feel that you're the caliber of employee we want at Google, because you couldn't pass your exam on World War Two. We're sorry, Mr. Stilinski, you have a brain tumor because you failed to remember Rommel's name._ That's what it's like. I've given myself imaginary cancer because I can't cope right now.

_I'm sorry, Stiles. I don't love you. I could never love anybody who failed this history test._

It doesn't matter who says those words to me in my head. It shifts, it changes. Sometimes it's my dad. Sometimes it's Scott. Most of the time it's Lydia or Derek. Fifty-fifty appearance between those two, because that's just how my brain works. Even when I'm stupid in love with somebody, I like to leave my options open. Mainly because I'm selfish that way. Probably why I'll never have a real relationship, go me. Not that I ever have even the slightest chance with either of them. Which, yeah, now that's definitely adding another layer of anxiety to the patina. At this rate it's gonna turn into a pearl. That's how they're formed, a layer of hardened oyster spit over a piece of dirt. ...I just compared my mind to oyster spit. This is officially out of control.

My stomach is growling again. It's empty, and I can process that it's requiring food to fill it up. The thought is there, clear as can be. The instinct is there. But do I actually feel hungry? Nope. Noooooo. Not at all. The thought of putting something in my mouth, chewing it, pulping it, and swallowing it actually makes me gag. So I'm not thinking about it. I'll have a Coke later, that'll fill me up and give me some calories. And caffeine. Which will ramp up the shakes too, but hey.

I'm breathing, thank god. At least that's still working somewhat up to par. Okay, so it's shaking on the exhale something fierce, but air is coming in and going out on a steady basis. Small victories.

I should get up and go out. I should take a shower and get dressed and go to Scott's place. But the thought of leaving my room right now makes my heart rate skyrocket, and that's no fun at all. Easier to hide here for a bit. Yes, much easier to hide. Just for a little bit.

It's a rotten feeling, your body's defense mechanism turning on itself, devouring itself, making you shake, making you sick. I haven't eaten in three days. You know why that happens? So if the 'flight' instinct kicks in harder you don't carry too much extra weight on your frame. Easier to run on an empty stomach. Primate evolution is a bitch, isn't it? 

Nothing is easier anymore. I wish this would just settle down or evolve like a Pokemon into a full-blown panic attack already. Then it's over, and I can start to recover a little. But the constant anxious feeling, the self-loathing, the trembling, I really just want it to stop. And I can't take anything for it, it'd react badly with the Adderall. So...great. I wish there was just one little pill I could take once that would turn my brain off for a bit, let me be relaxed and happy and calm. That's what I wish for most of all, just a little bit of calm. It'd be nice to know what that's like for once.

...Hey, Samurai Jack is on Netflix.

Maybe that'll help.

It won't help.


End file.
